A few days after October 7, I received an email from the parent of one of my students. The message itself was simple: a link to a video of the prayer for the soldiers of the Israel Defense Forces, set to music. But it was the words, written by the student, that stayed with me:

I’m sure you’ll like this video because you are Israeli. It’s a good song, very encouraging. I hope Hashem will watch over all our soldiers and bring them home safely so there will be peace.

This was not an assignment. No one had asked her to do this. It was an instinctive act of connection—a student using Hebrew, prayer, and music to reach out to her teacher and to Israel. In that moment, it became clear to me that Hebrew in my classroom had changed. It was no longer only a subject to be mastered; it had become a lifeline.

I teach Hebrew in an Orthodox Jewish day school in the United States. Most of our families are American born, with a small but meaningful number of Israeli families. I teach across a wide span of grades—from early elementary through junior high and high school—and I have taught in several schools over the years. This breadth allows me to see patterns across ages, curricula, and moments in Jewish history. Since October 7, one pattern has become unmistakable: Hebrew has taken on new urgency, new emotional weight, and new possibilities.

Hebrew as More Than a Language

In many day schools, Hebrew is often framed as either a functional skill or a gateway to classical Jewish texts. While both approaches are valuable, they can sometimes overlook a third, equally vital dimension: Hebrew as a living language of peoplehood, emotion, and moral responsibility.

After October 7, my students did not ask for more grammar drills or vocabulary lists. They asked for words to express fear, hope, grief, faith, and solidarity. They needed Hebrew not only to communicate, but to belong.

Our Hebrew classrooms are uniquely positioned to respond to moments of collective crisis because they sit at the intersection of language, culture, values, and identity. This was especially true in an Orthodox school environment, where prayer, text, and communal responsibility are already part of the students’ daily rhythm. The challenge, and the opportunity, was how to respond in a way that was age-appropriate, emotionally responsible, and pedagogically sound.

Adapting the Curriculum Without Abandoning It

In grades one through six, I primarily work with iTaLAM, a digital Hebrew language and Jewish heritage curriculum designed for second-language learners. Even before October 7, iTaLAM emphasized Hebrew as a bridge to Jewish life—integrating language acquisition with holidays, values, and cultural practices. After October 7, the program itself added an additional layer addressing the war in Israel, providing age-appropriate content to help students understand what was happening.

This addition was important, but it was only a starting point. Curriculum alone cannot meet the emotional needs of students in times of crisis. What mattered most was how we, as teachers, mediated that content—how we framed discussions, how we listened, and how we allowed students to respond.

We did not turn Hebrew class into a news broadcast and we did not overwhelm students with graphic details or political debates. Instead, we focused on meaning, connection, and agency. Hebrew became the language through which students could do something—write, pray, sing, and express care.

Students from third grade and up wrote letters to soldiers. Some wrote to soldiers they did not know, others wrote to family members who had been called up for reserve duty. Writing in Hebrew gave these letters a particular power. Even when the language was simple, the intent was profound. Hebrew allowed students to feel that their words were crossing an ocean.

Music as an Emotional and Linguistic Anchor

One of the most powerful tools in my classroom has always been music. After October 7, its role became even more central—and more intentional.

Interestingly, I made a conscious decision not to focus on songs written about the war itself. While such songs can be meaningful, I sensed that many students and teachers were already emotionally saturated. Instead, I chose calmer, gentler songs that offered comfort, faith, and space to breathe.

In middle school, we learned the song Modeh Ani by Omer Adam based on the traditional prayer recited upon waking up. Linguistically, it allowed us to work on masculine and feminine forms. Spiritually, it opened a conversation about gratitude—not only for joyful moments, but also for challenges and disappointments that shape who we become. Students shared reflections that were thoughtful and unexpectedly deep. For some, gratitude meant family. For others, it meant routine, safety, or simply the ability to come to school.

In junior high and high school, we studied Helkat Elokim Ketanah (“A Small Piece of God”) as sung by Yonatan Razel. After analyzing the lyrics, each student wrote a short personal piece describing their own helkat Elokim ketanah, a place or moment where they feel peace and grounding. The responses were deeply moving: a quiet bedroom, a run at sunset, a grandparent’s home, summer camp, a hammock in the backyard. Hebrew became the language through which students articulated vulnerability and hope.

Music, in these moments, did more than support language acquisition. It created emotional safety. It allowed Hebrew to be felt, not just learned.

Spoken Hebrew and Everyday Rituals

Beyond music, small daily routines played a crucial role in sustaining Hebrew as a living language. Consistent opening phrases, predictable classroom expressions, light humor, and age-appropriate slang all helped normalize Hebrew speech without pressure.

Especially after October 7, lowering anxiety was essential. Students needed to know that Hebrew was not another space where they could “fail.” It was a space where they could show up as they were. Even brief moments of spoken Hebrew—greetings, check-ins, shared phrases—reinforced the idea that Hebrew belongs to them.

Developmental Differences Across Grades

Teaching across grades two through eleven has underscored how differently students process collective trauma. Younger students tend to respond through action and creation—drawing, writing cards, offering simple blessings. Older students seek interpretation, context, and meaning. They ask harder questions. They need space for reflection.

In junior high and high school, we studied Psalms—most notably Psalm 23—set to a melody by Yossi Hershkowitz (a soldier killed in battle). Learning both the text and the story behind the melody allowed students to engage deeply with themes of fear, trust, and divine presence. The verse “gam ki elekh begei tzalmavet lo ira ra ki Atah imadi” (even as I walk in the valley of the shadow of death I fear no evil for You are with me) resonated strongly. Students spoke about how these words might give strength to soldiers facing uncertainty.

The content was different across ages, but the goal was the same: to help students feel that Hebrew is a language that can hold complexity.

What We Chose Not to Do

Equally important were the choices about what not to include. We avoided graphic images, constant news updates, and unfiltered social media content. We resisted the urge to respond to every headline. Instead, we prioritized emotional pacing and trust.

Hebrew class did not become a space of fear. It became a space of grounding.

Hebrew as Responsibility

Over time, a broader educational goal emerged. Through Hebrew, students were not only learning language and culture; they were practicing responsibility. Writing letters, studying prayers, sending notes to be placed at the Kotel—these acts helped students understand that they are part of the community of Israel, regardless of geography.

Hebrew gave them a way to care actively, not passively. It transformed concern into action.

Challenges and Ongoing Questions

Teaching Hebrew is not without challenges. Balancing curriculum requirements with emotional responsiveness requires constant judgment. There is no single formula. Each class, each age group, each moment demands attentiveness.

Yet the success has been unmistakable. Students are more engaged. Hebrew feels relevant. It feels human.

Looking Forward

The events of October 7 did not create a new philosophy of Hebrew education, rather, they revealed what has long been true but often overlooked. In moments of crisis, students do not turn to Hebrew because it is required or assessed. They turn to it because it offers access—to meaning, to memory, and to community. October 7 clarified that Hebrew is not only a subject we teach, but a vessel our students rely on when they seek connection, comfort, and purpose.

For Jewish day schools outside of Israel this realization carries significant implications. If Hebrew is taught solely as a language of the past or as a preparatory skill for some future encounter with Israel, it risks becoming distant and abstract. When Hebrew is experienced as a living, responsive language—spoken, sung, written, prayed, and felt—it becomes immediately relevant. It becomes the language through which students process the world as it is, not only as it once was or might someday be.

What emerged in my classroom after October 7 was not only linguistic growth, but emotional and ethical engagement. Students used Hebrew to write letters, sing, pray, and express responsibility for others beyond themselves. They discovered that Hebrew could hold grief without despair, faith without certainty, and hope without naiveté. When Hebrew becomes a lifeline—connecting students to Israel, to one another, and to their own developing identities—it fulfills its deepest educational promise.